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" the fish,—not another cast shall I make,—better feast my eyes on this grand scenery." These were the words which escaped from the lips of an unsuccessful angler, on the river Linn, in the western Highlands, one calm summer morning. Then tossing his rod on the bank, he stepped up towards the end of the old wooden bridge which spanned that noble stream, where it discharges itself in the head of Loch Linn.

The young sportsmen thus unceremoniously presented to the reader, was apparently a stranger in those parts, judging from his garb, and the visible admiration he manifested in beholding the surrounding prospect. His handsome figure and noble bearing proved him at once to be some young scion of the English aristocracy.

The magnificent scenery which presented itself to his view was truly sufficient to enrapture the mind, and calculated to revert youthful and elevated thoughts like his to many romantic tales and scenes associated with the Highlands, often read of, but never before now experienced in their true effect.

The winding Linn, which meandered slowly through the glen, glittered over its pebbly bed, and exhausted its sparkling waters in the head of the estuary, lay at his feet. The hills and mountains, rising gradually on both sides like waves, cast their frowning shadows on the bosom of Loch Linn. On the south side rose Ben Mòr, towering above the rest, and as if looking over with contempt on its insignificant rival Ben Veg, which held it station on the north side; both appearing like gigantic sentinels weighing over the peaceful scenery below.